The Black Effect (Cold War) (12 page)

Chapter 15

0400
7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+). GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

“All Two-Two call signs. Incoming! Incoming!”

Alex dropped down into the turret, pulling the hatch down after him. “Gas, gas, gas!” he yelled, pulling his respirator on, followed by the hood of his suit, his rubber neoprene gloves already on. Although the Chieftain tank had an NBC protection system, attached at the rear of the bustle, he knew that any rupture of the fighting compartment would leave them exposed.

“All covered?” he called to the crew.

All three responded positively, a slight tremor to their metallic-sounding voices.

Oh God
, thought Alex,
it’s finally come
.

0400 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-DELTA. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Corporal Carter pulled his body down as low as possible in the confines of the slit trench, two soldiers of his section doing the same. His vision seemed to suddenly turn dark as over 1,000 122mm rockets landed along the full length of the thin line of the Bravo Troop element of the British troops defending this sector of Gronau. The entire stretch of ground appeared to lift up as one as the combined weight of explosives tore into the ground, a dense cloud of dust and debris forming a layer, as if levitating, ten-metres above the ground. No sooner had it levelled at that height than a continuing ripple of explosions maintained it, a screen of debris and shrapnel smashing everything it touched. Those on the other side of the river looked on in awe, seeing nothing but a blanket of death that shielded their eyes from anything they might recognise as landmarks. The enlarged foxhole sheltering the Mortar Forward Controller and Forward Air Controller was hit by two rockets, one after the other, that tore the trench apart, sending chunks of prefabricated panels skyward like misshapen Frisbees; the bodies of the soldiers they had been trying to protect were not far behind them, crashing to the ground, torn apart and unrecognisable. No sooner had the ripple of rocket strikes and explosions started to die off than the crews were already preparing the reload for the next launch, but in the meantime, heavier calibre shells took over the onslaught.

0400 7 JULY 1984. BRAVO-TROOP (+), CALL SIGN TWO-TWO-BRAVO. GRONAU, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Two-Two-Bravo’s crew pressed their rubber-gloved hands to their ears as shrapnel from the exploding shells gouged their Chieftain tank, spattered it with flying masonry and bricks from as far afield as the village. Other objects that got in the way of the barrage, added to the debris as the shelling pounded the ground around them.

Clang...ting, ting...clang...clang, clang...clang.
Shrapnel eat away at the Chobbam armour, gouging rents into its outer skin, stripping off anything it could find such as the Gympy, aerials and stowage bins.
BOOMF!
The one side of the tank was lifted completely off the ground, as a 152-millimetre shell exploded right next to it. The track shredded, stripped away from the bogie wheels as if a zip ripped from a garment. The crew as one cried out in fear as a second and third shell ensured the upward momentum of the fifty-ton giant was maintained, flipping it onto its side as if a mere toy.

Sergeant Andrews smashed his head against the hard metal of the turret, his bone-dome saving him from a more serious injury, but a smashed hand put paid to him operating in a tank again for some time – providing he was able to get out.

His gunner, Lance Corporal Owen, fared worse. His body was thrown violently against the breach of the 120mm gun, crushing his ribs and piercing his lungs with splinters of the now exposed ivory bone, his gasps for breath suffocated by the frothy blood, flecking the lens of his respirator with pink spots as it slowly engulfed the inside of his mask. A cry of agony was drowned out by the cacophony of sound outside as the tank continued to be buffeted by the barrage. He tried helplessly to move a broken arm to relieve himself of the mask that was preventing him taking the urgent, deep breath his body and mind craved for. Now distraught, he frantically tried to remove his mask, rubbing its surface against the front of the fighting compartment, desperate to dislodge the respirator that was slowly sucking the life out of him. One last attempt failed as his lungs collapsed, and the very mask that was designed and issued to save his life in the event of a chemical attack, killed him.

The Chieftain, stripped of everything that had been attached to its exterior, the barrel buckled and useless, settled at an uneven angle on its side, the battered gun barrel and the sides of the berm having prevented it from being turned upside down completely.

Trooper Lowe was pinned horizontally in the driver’s compartment, on his side, in a space that could barely take a small man in normal circumstances, let alone when on its side. Lowe just stared into what little room he had, stunned. The vision blocks that he had depended on for an external view were now chipped and coated with earth, blinding him, having the effect of magnifying the sound of the shells that continued to explode around them. Tears ran down his cheeks; the urge to tackle the itch beneath his respirator almost as great as the need to escape his current position.

For fifteen minutes, the artillery strike battered the defenders on the eastern banks of the river before switching their interests to those troops watching from the western bank. The sounds and vibrations slowly faded as the guns and rocket launchers adjusted their aim to hit the rest of the defending forces.

0420 7 JULY 1984. RECCE-TROOP (-). BARFELDE, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

Rocket after rocket, shell after shell flew over the heads of the two Scorpions in Barfelde. Lieutenant Baty risked poking his head out of the hatch, the tumultuous barrage going on above and behind him. He swallowed and, although in his heart he felt for his fellow soldiers further back, he was thankful that he and his men weren’t on the receiving end. The soldiers on the east and west bank of the River Leine, however, were getting the full attention of the massed Soviet artillery, the intention to smash the British army’s resistance. For now, though, he and his men were safe. Although a worry filtered to the surface of his thoughts. If they weren’t hitting Barfelde, it could mean the Soviets were going to move troops to the immediate area under cover of the shelling, using the L482 road to the south-east, or coming across the open ground from the east. Either direction, he and his second recce unit would be able to see them and report. His gunner, Lance Corporal Alan Reid, called up, “Is it bad, sir?”

“The lads behind are getting a pasting, I should imagine. Thomas OK?”

“Needs a piss, but I told him now is not the time.”

This brought a laugh from them both.

“No, he needs to stay put. Something is going to happen as soon as the shelling has stopped, if not before.”

“We’ll be ready, sir.” Reid went back to his gun sight, ready for whatever was to be thrown at them. He had confidence in his troop commander.

The young officer, on the other hand, was not so sure. He shifted his slim frame as he mulled over the likely options of what could transpire. He patted his respirator case, making sure it was on hand should he need it urgently. He had contemplated ordering his men to mask up as the first salvos had flown overhead, but relented. He needed his vision to be clear and unobstructed if he was to observe the slightest of movements from the vicinity of the forest in front. The explosions were occurring at least two kilometres back, and the wind was from the east, so he was confident that he had made the right call. His watch told him it was four-thirty, as the ordnance continued along its westerly flight above him. Picking up his binos, he scoured the horizon, looking for any sign of enemy activity – any activity for that matter. Once spotted, he could report it back and bring down some of their own artillery and start hitting back. Minute after minute, Soviet missiles and shells arced overhead, impacting on his comrades, the bombardment unrelenting.

Thump...thump, thump...crump...boom...crump, crump, crump...thump.

His head started to throb; the heat of the turret’s confined space; the uncomfortable Noddy suit; barely a few hours’ sleep in the last forty-eight hours; the constant drumming behind him. He suddenly felt disorientated and somewhat isolated, wishing he was back home in England, or even back at Regimental HQ, preparing to go to a mess dinner. He knew they were the furthest unit east, the last of the battered 4th Armoured Division in their area, having passed through the village about an hour ago. His ears perked up as he recognised a change in the sound of the barrage: the torrent of missiles and shells were still rolling west, but now across the river, targeting the troops on the west bank, headquarters’ formations and those reserves dug in further back. It continued unabated for another fifteen minutes; then silence. When the silence came, it was eerie, almost disconcerting.

Baty shook his head and spoke to his crew through the intercom. “Standby, lads. This quiet won’t last for long. All Two-One call signs report. Over.”

“
Two-One-Alpha, all OK
.” His second in command was in one of two Scorpions watching the approaches from the village of Gut Dotzum.

“
Two-One-Bravo, all quiet. Out
.” The second Scorpion in Gut Dotzum was reporting all quiet.

“
Two-One-Charlie. All OK
.” The southern part of Barfelde was quiet as well.

“Bugger.”

“What is it, sir?” asked his gunner.

“Watch your front, enemy movement. 1,500 metres, ten o’clock, Track 2, BMP-2.”

The turret whirred as Reid slowly turned the turret, moving it gently so as not to cause any sudden movement that could be noticed, the 76mm gun soon aimed in the direction of the Soviet mechanised infantry combat vehicle.

“All Two-One call signs. Enemy movement 1,500 metres, north-east Barfelde.”

The BMP-2 had emerged from the western edge of the forest in front of them, creeping forward, sniffing out the territory that lay ahead of it.

Baty kept his gunner informed of the enemy’s movement. “First BMP-2 moving north-west, second BMP-2 following.”

“Roger. Ready to fire. First BMP, then the second.”

“Two more BMPs, moving south-west. Stay with the ones to the north, but hold your fire.”

“Roger.”

“Two-One-Charlie. You have two Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos, 1,500 metres out, heading your location. Over.”

“
Understood. Have visual. Southern sector quiet. Over
.”

“Roger.”

More vehicles emerged from the forest. A couple of BRDM-2s, an SA-9 to provide air cover, and a T-80 fanning out and picking up speed, heading towards Barfelde.

“
Two-One, this is Two-One-Charlie. Three Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos and one Tango-Eight-Zero heading north-west towards my location. Over
.”

“Roger. Their start point? Over.”

“
Direction of Eitzum, north-west along Lima, four, eight, two. Over
.”

“Roger, Two-One-Charlie. Standby. Hello Two, this Two-One. Contact to my front. Two, Bravo-Mike-Papa-Two’s and one Tango-Eight-Zero, two, Bravo-Romeo-Delta-Mike-Two’s and One, Sierra-Alpha-Nine, fifteen-hundred metres, advancing my location. Need to move in two-mikes, over.”

“
Two-One, this is Two. Standby for outgoing. Out
.” The squadron headquarters had acknowledged his report and had also informed him of the anticipated strike from 1st Division’s artillery assets.

“Hello Two, this Two-One. Two thousand metres south-east of Two-One-Charlie’s position, three Bravo-Mike-Papa-Twos and one Tango-Eight-Zero.”

“
Two-One, this is Two. Roger that. Out
.”

0425 7 JULY 1984. 40TH RA. SOUTH OF OLDENDORF, WEST GERMANY.

THE BLACK EFFECT −1 DAY.

The triangular piece of land, bordered by trees and hedgerows, 600 metres east of Oldendorf, was an ideal spot for the one of the batteries of 40th Royal Artillery Regiment to use as a firing base. The eight M109A2s had lined up in two troops of four, ready to complete a fire mission to support the beleaguered troops to their front. M109A2, a Self-propelled Howitzer, was the indirect fire weapon of the artillery regiments of the British army, and for many artillery regiments and brigades of other NATO forces. The twenty-seven-ton SPH, with its 152mm gun, could pack a punch that would go some way to interdicting the Soviet advance that had just kicked off on the eastern side of the River Leine. The crew of six – the vehicle commander, driver, gunner, assistant gunner and two ammunition handlers – were preparing their particular gun ready for combat. This would be the first time they would have fired in anger. To date, 4th Armoured Division had taken the brunt of the Soviet advance. But, today, the Soviet army was going to be hit by fresh troops, fresh artillery, and more of it. They also had a little treat in store for the advancing forces: the M109A2s would be firing the new lethal round, the M483. This dual-purpose round would deliver sixty-four M42 and thirty-two M46 grenades.

The Corporal sat perched on the metal fold-down seat in the back of the FV105 Sultan artillery command vehicle, his headphones pulled over his beret, listening intently to the message being received. He tapped on the numerical keys of the Field Artillery Computer Equipment (FACE) console, entering the setting up data for the gun positions. The Command Post Officer (CPO) was watching over him, clutching the remote enter button. The CPO was also checking that the correct data had been entered, comparing it and the target location against his check map, also confirming their own British unit locations. The meteorological and gun muzzle velocity data had been entered earlier via the punched tape reader. Satisfied the data entered was correct and that he was sure of the target location and the location of friendly forces, the CPO depressed the enter button. The counter-penetration fire mission was now ready. The officer gave the NCO the nod and the Corporal started to transmit.